


Once Upon a Dream

by beautifullyheeled, janto321 (FaceofMer)



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Sleeping Beauty Fusion, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arranged Marriage, First Kiss, First Love, First Meetings, First Time, Frottage, Goddess with Chorus, Hand Jobs, Love at First Sight, M/M, Magical Realism, Oral Sex, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2115633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere between a beloved dream and an arranged marriage, two souls find one another...</p>
<p>Passing through the woods on his way to fulfill his duty, Prince John Watson meets someone extraordinary. Meanwhile, William Holmes has been raised ignorant of his true past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Saw You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zumbadorcito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zumbadorcito/gifts).



> This is an Exchangelock prompt fill for Zumbadorcito. They said they were open to most AU's and so we went with fairytale, as sometimes you just need a Happily Ever After.
> 
> Mer and I hope you enjoy this fill!
> 
> Love and Light  
> ~Diann

Soft light filtered through the ancient trees that slowly swayed in the gentle breeze. He had been called home to fulfill his duty to marry. His father’s kingdom, finally at peace. A pact between the two kings that their first borns would wed had been sealed and with it, his fate. War was never pretty, especially on the front lines of their battles, but the thrill down his spine as sharpened implements of destruction raged against battle-tested armour, the sweat and blood, his fellow brothers-in-arms, he’d miss those things.

Then there was the gleam of chain and plate that stopped death, until it didn’t. He’d worked hours in his men’s surgical tents. It was important to see, both on and off the battlefield, the reality of what war meant. It had been good work to save who he could, patching up those that needed little but a small mend, whispering prayers of healing until only a faint silvered line remained of the wound. Thankful the day he himself needed mending, that he had become adept at the sacred words. Far into the fray, the prince knew the moment he saw the strike that it would be true; fortunately his opponent hadn’t realized his importance and moved on as he fell. He lay forgotten in the tumult of the hew and cries, unseen in the brambles. The thicket reminded him of home and endless summers and hope. His stuttered prayers had come from broken lungs, but he had survived. Many of his men considered it a miracle from the Goddess herself, though they knew better than to spread rumors; on the battlefield, one saw many strange things. 

John shook his head lightly, clearing the memory, his hand moving to smooth over the silvered line he bore under his tunic; It was cool to the touch, as if drenched in his Goddess’ tears. A reminder; the one scar that would never fade. As he came back to his surroundings, he found his stallion stopped, ears pricked high and forward. A soft nudge and low words had the beast moving once again, though cautious. Not even in battle had the creature turned skittish. Then, his own ears picked up the lilting tune carried by the wind. He followed it, his stallion’s footing steady, but slow. 

The forest seemed too still, as if its creatures were in waiting for the first crisp breaths of spring to ignite them into motion. This could not be true though, as even the soft meadow not far from his position had begun to flower. The rich hues and their heady perfume added to the filtered glen turning it ethereal. A willow-thin figure wheeled, arms spread wide as they danced among the sea of barely open petals. A song of meeting... of soft visions of a betrothed. Virginal dreams brought to the light of day. 

Dismounting, the prince, tugged the reins, gingerly stepping to tie Rhythm’s, _damn gitty horse_ , leathers to a young tree, soft boots muting his steps as he wound, half-crouched, to just this side of the break to listen. What struck John first were the inky, night sky curls that covered the ivory-skinned figure’s crown like a decadent halo meant for heavenly courts. As the body clad in soft colours turned towards where he hid, the prince’s heart stopped. The youth was beautiful. There was not another word for the young man who was singing of the purest of loves, and who was he to ignore the pull of the song? 

Gossamer filaments tugged within his chest, soft threads that bound up his heart as the warm tones spoke of honeyed half-formed wishes. He came out of the cool shade and reached for thin wrists and danced a few steps with the young man before his tentativeness caused them to halt. John placed him at eighteen, still untested; possibly from one of the quiet cottages in the area. Morning-pale eyes that were curious, but open. Trusting. Not one to have met with many outside his family then. The young man smiled then, and took the dance back up, his eyes roaming over John’s form. Goddess, it felt like he was holding a nymph in his arms.

“Visions are seldom as they seem,” John whispered, his tone soft and sure. 

“My aunts often tell me so,” a soft, bright smile lit the ethereal features. “People though, the way they dress, hold themselves... it speaks its own language.”

“Does it now?” John looked up into shifting-colored eyes and smiled as well. “Tell me then.”

The young man seemed to take it as a challenge, backed a full two steps away, and circled him; keen eyes once again taking in what they would. 

“You’re not from the forest, but you are used to its paths. A noble… no… _a prince_ , out in these woods? You came this way in hopes of finding a place of solitude as you are contemplating some issue that is serious to you personally. With a sword, even though it is not your usual blade, as you are recovered from an injury... well when I say recovered... _Healed_ is a better description, is it not?”

“How did you... that is... amazing.” _As is your voice, your very being._ “My name is John,” He reached forward and took the long-fingered hand into his, rubbing his thumb along the prominent knuckles before kissing them. “And you are?”

“William,” A blush dusted over the high cheekbones. “I should be getting back, my aunts might worry-”

“William,” John echoed the name as he kept close. “Noble name. Was it your father’s?” What had happened to his family? His curiosity grew as the prince found himself enamored. “Is this part of your family’s land that I have come upon?”

“I never knew my father, or my mother, but that is not what you truly wish to know. I am as free from impediment as you.” 

At this, John licked at his lower lip, before flicking his eyes between the storm-cloud blue that wanted to capture his soul and the pale lips he wanted to devour. 

“Do you believe in fate, William?” His body responding to the soft, parted mouth. “That our paths have crossed-”

“You are a dream come true, John.” William pulled the noble, crashing the compact frame of the man into his own, almost barreling them over as he claimed the chapped lips for his own. John grabbed his waist to keep them steady, fingers gripped tight at the thin hips. 

William’s fingers released on impact and found their way to thread in the golden strands of John’s hair, weaving, then pulling, before releasing again. His bare foot insinuated itself between the soft booted ones. The prince hummed at the tug before realizing William had stepped forward, toppling them into the cushioning of the meadow floor. The long legs, now half- splayed between and over John, pinned the prince, a hard warmth just above his hip distracting him from voicing his concern. _That and the air he lost in the fall to the ground._

Regaining his voice, he exhaled, “William,” seeking and finding the soft mouth that hovered just above his; covering it again and taking what was offered. 

“I’m to be married soon, John.” The luminous quality of William’s eyes tugged once again somewhere deep within the war-torn heart. “I want this choice to be mine.”

Warm hands moved down John’s throat, then one continued down his torso, to his stays. Their mouths met again, John allowing William to explore. If it were his spouse? He would be within an arranged marriage soon... would he, could he begrudge if his intended were to make the same choice? No, he could not, as he wanted this more than the air within his body. And this beautiful man was asking him. 

“I’ll not take what is not mine, by right,” He soothed as he nipped at William’s earlobe. “But you may have what you will of me otherwise. It has been a very long while since I have had a lover.” 

The young man became emboldened and whined throatily at the agreement, William’s fingers working swiftly now to undo the soft breeches John had worn out that day; John’s fingers exploring the soft curls that shielded his eyes from the sun as thin, agile digits folded around his cock. His breath caught, gaze pulled to the touch. A groan escaped him, the warm huff of sound between them stilling William’s hand. 

“No, love, don’t stop.” John soothed and arched his hips in a gentle roll, dropping his head back to the soft grasses and wildflowers of their trysting. “You are so beautiful, William.”

“John,” The dark halo of hair dipped, then dropped as William pressed against him, their foreheads touching, as if to anchor the lad. His breath, full of a sweetness, mingled with the perfume of the flowers they crushed beneath them. If there were a Paradise, John hoped it would be as lovely as this. 

Heart thundered against its cage, the edge of excitement thick within his veins, John's sure fingers found William’s breeches and worked them down. William watched his hand work John into a hardened, weeping state, the rapt concentration evident in each stroke.

“You’re amazing,” whispered John in the reverent tones usually reserved for prayer.

William flushed deeper. “You flatter me, Prince.” 

John crashed his lips against William’s, tasting the honey of his kiss as he took the younger man in hand. He swallowed his moans as the hand on John’s cock stuttered. “It’s all right,” he said soothingly, pulling back to look into blown eyes. His touch on William’s cock remained steady and sure as, with a sharp gasp, William pulsed over his hand; William's own had gone still as his eyes slammed shut and breath stopped. After a few moments, the young man licked his lips and looked down, hesitatingly starting to stroke John again.

“It’s alright,” John put his hand over William’s. “You don’t have to…”

Determination flared in William’s eyes. “It’s only fair.”

Smiling, John kissed him again. “Do you want to be my lark?”

“And that is?” Curiosity flooded William’s face, making his eyes bright.

“We use your mouth, love.” John gentled his voice as he ran his thumb over William’s smooth jaw. He rolled the young man onto his back, brushing the thick curls aside. “Part your lips, darling.” William looked so trusting as he obeyed, tongue darting out to wet his lips as they were opened. Unable to help himself, John leaned in for another lovely kiss, exploring the depths of William’s mouth. Soft hands came up to smooth down his sides. raising goosebumps on the exposed skin. John felt William’s thumb brush the thin scar and stop. Clearly curious and breaking the kiss, William looked to the damaged skin.

“Not important,” said John, taking his hands in his own. “I’m going to move up your body now, place myself into your mouth. It’s like kissing...” He quieted as he thought how best to explain as he arranged himself to sit astride William’s hips. “Like this.”

John brought a hand to his lips then peeked his tongue just out to lap at the pads of William’s first two fingers, watching his eyes. Slowly he pulled them into his mouth. At the gentle suction, William blushed even further, his glistening lips parting as his breath hitched. John sucked the fingers farther in, gingerly working them with shallow movements before removing them. 

He could feel the stirring of his lover’s cock beneath him, the eyes dark again and fixed on his own. John took a breath to steady himself as he set down his lover’s hand. “William, is that something you wish?”

The press of William’s hands against his hips, tugging John forward, told him all he needed to know. Those pale lips parted once again as his tongue pulled just the hooded head of him into his mouth. John fell forward with a moan, planting his hands on the cool grass. It was heated and wet, as he knew it would be, but the tenderness of the light strokes disarmed him completely. John rolled his hips, watching his cock vanish deeper into William’s willing mouth. _Goddess, he was gorgeous_

He wanted to tumble over the edge, to rush headlong to the finish, but John knew he had to take his time. The small thrusts past the kiss-swollen lips tested all his resolve . William began swiping with his tongue and adding suction as John had on his fingers just moments ago. It felt so right, so complete, John almost hurt to know they were not meant for one another. As John slipped in deeper still, an appreciative hum wrapped around his cock and pulled a moan from deep within him.

“William, yes, please,” John whispered, almost unable to speak. “Just so.”

William answered by extending his tongue further out and licking down the length that was still exposed, not yet in his mouth. John balanced with one hand, grabbing at William’s hand with the other and sucking his slender fingers back into his mouth. John’s hips rolled faster, groaning as his lover’s free hand wandered beneath the lowered waist of his clothes, the tentative brush of curious fingers not to be ignored. A slight press against his arse and John could feel his sac tighten as he pushed back , the dry tip of the digit making him groan. 

He was close, so very close. John pulled William’s fingers free and kissed the palm. “I’m going to come,” he warned, starting to pull back. Growling, William grabbed his hips and pulled him back down. John’s cock hit the back of his throat as he keened his lover’s name, coming, hard. William swallowed around him, letting him pull back a bit, but kept the prince in his mouth until John was nearly oversensitive.

“Goddess, William.” John rolled to the side and lay on his back, staring up at the sky. He reached over and wove his fingers through his lover’s. Humming contentedly, William scoot down and lay his head on John’s chest. 

_I am lost_ , thought John. He felt tears sting his eyes, but refused to let them fall, wanting to hold onto this precious moment for as long as he could.

“William!” A woman’s voice called from somewhere close.

Grumbling, William tucked in close to John. Sadly, John kissed the top of his head. “You better go,” he said softly, moving to help him with his clothes. As they finished dressing, John met William’s eyes again and could see the same longing and heartbreak he was feeling. So much to say, and neither of them could say it. He surged forward to kiss William one more time before forcing himself to walk away. He could feel his eyes on his back until he finally rode out of sight.


	2. Chapter 2

William entered the small home with his shoulders lowered as if in defeat. Of course his aunts did not notice as they were tittering around a large open chest full of clothing. Scrolls he had never seen before lay opened and everywhere as they spoke quickly to one another and flitted animatedly around it all.

“William! There you are!” 

“Where _were_ you?”

“It is your birthday today after all! So much to do!”

Their voices were bright and full of love, even in admonishment. 

He moved over to them and began reading one of the unfurled parchments. It was a lineage from long ago, from the Holmes line. The King and the Queen had no heir which made their kingdom mourn as they were both just and devout. The Goddess shined down her favour amongst the people even now, yet had never answered the pleas for a child for the couple. 

“Aunt Emma, why is there an heir named on this?” William pointed to the scroll and picked it up to emphasize the error. “They have no child, certainly not a son who is-”

He looked again at the date, then the name that accompanied it. _It could not be._

The eldest of his aunts came forward. “Oh, William. My darling-”

“We hated to keep it from you-”

“But we were sworn to protect you-”

William sat down hard on one of the scattered chairs that was closest to him. “So that means my betrothed? I am a prince? I’ll marry for-” He swallowed the flash of memory sharp and painfully beautiful, of his very own Prince that had taken his innocence. _John_. “For lands and laurels. Will I even meet my suitor before we are wed?”

“Tonight, as a matter of fact. At the castle.’

“Of course! Isn’t it exciting!”

“Yes, darling! We must get you dressed!”

He nodded, and tried to put John’s memory away once again as he rose to go soak in the bath. His parents! The King and Queen! How would they feel about him, how much did they know? Would his betrothed give him any time with his parents before he was whisked away? There were so many questions swimming through his mind as William dunked into the bubbly warm water when all he wanted to think on was the golden skin and musky scent of the Prince he’d chosen to be his. The taste of him still there in his mouth only brought a sting of tears and longing he’d not previously known.

“Prince Sherlock... William?” The youngest of his aunts peeked through the doorway. “I have your things for you. It _is_ exciting isn’t it?” She looked worried for him, as if she could feel how his emotions were becoming. “Your father and mother? A husb- _and_ your betrothed.”

The slip was minor, but he had heard it nonetheless. “A Prince? Who is he. I demand to know.”

William refused to hold onto the hope that it was John, but he was from another kingdom and here within theirs. He shook himself mentally, of course he would be if he were part of a delegation. It would only be right that the royal families from neighboring kingdoms were here for such an occasion. 

“Is this why I was hidden? Because I am not a princess and cannot hold life within? Will he be displeased?”

Why any of this bothered him so when just mid-day these cares had never existed...

“No, my Prince. You were hidden to keep you safe. You see, one of our order... she was not as kind to you on your naming day. She wished you to die, on this very evening. Your eighteenth birthday. We could not allow that to happen, the Goddess- it is unnatural. So we gentled it. Brought you here to protect you. Safe from the world until tonight when you will be within your betrothed arms.”

“So, there is still something- you switched it didn’t you? You were the one that ‘gentled’ the wish until this day was over. Molly, I will not injure myself. You know I do not believe in magic-”

“As we taught you, but it does exist.”

“If it did, then my wish would be granted at this very moment and I would not be betrothed to a stranger who will most likely abhor my company and in turn we will ignore one another until she chooses to sire a child or he chooses to bed me at his leisure. I am assuming that I am the bride if that is the case.” 

He sunk deep into the bubbles and mourned angrily now. There must be a way. Molly tousled his curls and kissed the top of his head before seeing herself out. 

William didn't want to wash all of him away. Stewing in the bath, a plan started to form in his mind. He could run away. No such thing as a curse, after all, and even if there was, he would be free after tonight, right? Nodding to himself, William got up quietly and peered out the door. His three aunts were having a quiet argument, clearly trying not to disturb him. Good. 

Decision made, he toweled off quickly, slipping into his room and throwing on rough clothes. Perhaps he could reach the castle and find John. If he was a prince, then there was no reason they could not be joined. He spared a brief moment of mental apology to his intended betrothed before climbing out his window; from there it was easy to slip into the familiar woods. He'd caught a glimpse of a map on one of the scrolls, so he was reasonably certain he was going the right direction. 

William traveled for most of the afternoon. Surely his aunts missed him by now. He'd left behind the familiar woods and these trees felt darker, more menacing. Foolish, a figment of his worried mind. The woods were just becoming more densely packed, the foliage above not allowing the mid-day light to filter down to the floor of the forest. He was not a child that would allow his heightened awareness deduce things that were not true.

His royal name would be Sherlock then, Molly had used that name. Prince Sherlock Holmes? Prince Regent Sherlock Surname nee Holmes? How was one to know who they were if they did not even know their name? He sat for a moment in a small lit area of the woods and ate at an apple just plucked from the tree his back rested against. There must be a cottage near if there were tame trees in the area. William knew he must be careful; he did not wish to be caught.

Somewhere he could smell a cooking fire. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he'd skipped lunch. He should keep walking towards the castle. But his feet turned aside, brushing aside the brambles to find a small cottage with its door open to the spring breeze. 

There was an odd sound coming from inside. Curious, William crept forward until he could look in the open door. A woman sat at a strange device. She was beautiful, long black hair falling past her shoulders. The wheel of the device spun fast, her deft fingers working the thread. She looked up at him and smiled. Swallowing, William stepped into the cottage, drawn towards her like a moth to flame. Everything else seemed to fall from his mind but the movement of the wheel and her watching eyes. 

Without thought, he reached out a hand as if to catch and stop the wheel. Instead he missed and felt a prick on his skin. Looking down he saw a spot of blood welling up, before darkness swallowed him whole.


	3. Chapter 3

John arrived at the castle, still somewhat lost in thought and thinking of soft hands on his skin. He blinked that away. What was done was done and he had to think of his betrothed now. Squaring his shoulders, he let an attendant take his horse, adjusted his clothes and allowed himself to be led inside.

He was taken to his rooms to refresh himself after the travel. After all, it wouldn’t do to meet his future spouse smelling of horse, _and a beautiful tryst_ , his mind, unhelpfully supplied. Even now the taste of the honeyed kiss lingered on his lips. Stripping off his clothes, he looked in the mirror at his own eyes and wondered what they would think of him. He was a bit on the short side, still strong, but not entirely in fighting trim. John’s fingers found the silvered scar and he grounded himself in the coolness. The Goddess had saved him, she would have a plan.

Before long he was standing before a throne room, waiting to be announced. He felt at home in this castle, as the style of the kingdom was similar to his own, though privately it was a bit strange to be facing the same coat of arms that he’d lost so many men to. Still, it was with this gesture that he held the peace of both kingdoms in his hands, so that no more would have to die.

“Prince John Hamish Watson!” announced the herald and the doors swung wide open.

The King and Queen had been seated on their thrones, though they both stood as John entered, a sign they thought of him as an equal. He noticed an auburn haired man standing to one side, clearly someone used to authority. “Prince John, welcome,” said the King, stepping forward and down to take his hand, bowing slightly.

“Thank you, your Highness.” John bowed slightly in return. The formality of court he could do, though it was never his favorite thing.

“Your betrothed is not yet prepared to meet you,” said the King, his eyes flickering to the man standing to the side. A lie. Interesting. “This is Duke Mycroft, my heir.”

John offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” The man appraised him with icy eyes and a cool handshake. He wondered if Mycroft expected him to move in on his territory. John’s only plan was to join with his betrothed and take them back to his kingdom.

“You have had a long journey,” said the King. “We have a meal prepared.”

“Thank you.” 

Following them out of the throne room, John was a bit surprised that he was taken to a more intimate dining chamber. Clearly this was used by the family, not in any official capacity. The King sat at the head of the table, his wife and heir on either side of him. As servants filled the plates, he met John’s eyes.

“We have not been completely honest with you,” he said carefully.

John pondered his next words, wanting to tread with equal care, though his heart had skipped. “How so?”

“How much do you know of the history of this kingdom?” It was Mycroft that spoke, watching John closely.

“Not very much, I am afraid. I know that we have been at odds for ten years or more, and at full war for the last five. But aside from the bravery of your soldiers, I have not had a chance to acquaint myself much with your people.” John resisted the urge to take a sip of his drink.

Mycroft glanced towards the King. As if gathering himself, the King took a deep breath. “My wife and I had difficulty conceiving. Believing it would never occur, we chose my brother’s son as heir. But then, our miracle came.” He reached over and took his wife’s hand, seeking her strength. “A son was born to us and the kingdom rejoiced. But on his naming day, amidst the celebration, a curse was laid on our child. To protect him, we sent him away from the castle, hoping that he would be safe, as the curse was to be lifted after his eighteenth birthday.”

John licked his lips, the pieces very quickly coming together. “So he is my betrothed. And he is not here.”

“That is correct,” said Mycroft. “Though he is due to arrive at any time. He has been raised ignorant of his heritage, again for his own safety.”

A few thoughts went through John’s head. He mentally counted to five. “So I am to marry him and bring him back to my kingdom and teach him what it means to be a Prince and a consort?”

“You’re a good man, Prince John. Even here, we heard of your care for your men and your diligence to protect your people,” said the King. “We believe you will be equally diligent in caring for our child.”

John wondered what he would be like, how he had been raised. “Of course, your Highness. Our Kingdoms have made a pact and I will abide by it. I look forward to meeting him.” He smiled and tried not to think of the fresh lad he’d been with just this afternoon, though his heart ached with the memory.

The King started to speak, when suddenly the whole castle was thrown into chaos as the ground shook beneath them. John pulled the Queen down and under the table to protect her as the chandelier rattled above them. Finally, it came to an end. Carefully, John helped the Queen back up, seeing a silver-haired guard helping Mycroft to his feet. A few moments after that another guard came rushing in. “Your Highness, it’s the forest! Come to the watchtower, please!”

The royal party followed the guard. John felt the familiar thrum of danger in his veins, but nothing could quite prepare him for what he saw from the tower. The forest stretched for many miles from the city, but there, not so very far away, great brambles and thorns had sprung up, obscuring the trees, seeming to have swallowed up a whole section of forest.

Paling, the king swallowed hard. “It’s the curse,” he whispered.

John rolled his eyes. Mycroft saw the look on his face. “The original curse was that Sherlock would prick his finger on a spinning wheel and die. It was gentled, so that he would only fall asleep. The kiss of a Prince should wake him.”

“And I take it said Prince, would need to cross the forest, make his way through the thorns, and fight anything trying to stop him from reaching him?” John’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll go then, now.” He turned for the stairs.

“Take some of our soldiers with you,” said the King. “We do not know what you’ll face.”

John counted to ten before facing the King again. “Your Highness, I need to move quickly. I don’t have time to assemble a dozen men.”

 _Besides which, I don’t particularly favour the idea of a bunch of my very recent enemies at my back_ , remained unvoiced.

“Take Sir Gregory, then,” said Mycroft, giving the silver haired guard a nudge. “He is a Man at Arms and familiar with the forest.”

Looking at him, John could tell he was a veteran himself. “Very well, I only need to retrieve a few things from my room and then fetch my horse.”

In just a few minutes, John was riding out by Greg’s side. He was glad he’d decided to bring his chain mail, even if he hadn't been expecting any trouble. Full plate would just restrict his movements, though the King had offered him his choice of any weapons or armor. Before long, the knight was leading him under the trees and along dappled paths. The sun was dropping low, but clearly he knew exactly where he was going and John found himself already grateful for the company. Finally though, Greg brought his horse up to a walk. The forest here was darker, and as they crossed a tiny stream John was unsurprised to find their way blocked by heavy thorns.

“We’ll have to walk from here,” said Greg, moving along the perimeter, looking for any opening in the natural fence. John took the horses back a bit to a bright patch of forest with some decent grass, patting his own for a moment before going to the knight.

The sun had nearly set before they found the slightest opening. Greg and John shared a look, then John went first, sword in hand. He found himself comforted by the man behind him. At least he was a soldier, and loyal to the Royal family. The wild thorns seemed to glow with an ethereal light, even as they clutched and dragged at his skin and clothes. 

He was glad for the shield that was slung on his back as the brambles became almost oppressive. The air was heavy, wild rose pollen and earthen bracken filling his lungs. John found himself worried for the Prince who had to be innocent in this. How had his family done this to the young man? He drew his dagger, in addition to his sword, and began cutting away with it. A suddenly realization arose in the Prince’s mind. This was not far from where he had met with the young ebon curled lad. 

“Sir Gregory?” John kept his tone hushed, just above a whisper. “Would you tell me about the Prince?”

“Your Prince is a brilliant young man, and one day, he just might be a good one, too.” A soft whuff of a chuckle made him curious, especially after an answer like that. Gregory must have known it as he continued. “I have been told that he is very keen, unafraid to speak the truth. That he is as beautiful as his mother in most ways. Dark curls and frost coloured eyes. Their Majesties mourned for their child, Prince John, you must understand why they sent him away.”

“And yet, here we are, saving him from the very curse-” John stopped his words. It was not his place to question what had already happened. But it was to rescue his betrothed. His mind wandered to the youth once again; his lips, the way they felt against his. John sent a silent prayer that all would be well and that they would come back hale and whole from this wretched place. 

Gregory and John worked tirelessly, cutting through the twisted vines just to feel as if they were going in circles. There was no sense of time as the sun seemed perpetually in place since they entered the infernal area. It was hot in their armor and the air had turned stifling. They _had_ to fight their way through. They _had_ to save the Prince. John could see a tree, well he assumed a tree, it was just the very top. He motioned towards it and Gregory nodded. At the change in direction, the vines and rosewood seemed to give easier, as if the path was willing to yield. 

“Oh, thank the Goddess.” John sighted the clearing, his heart wanting to rush forward; his battle honed reflexes forcing him to keep to the snail's pace with which they had been progressing. 

“Don’t you find it odd that there’s been, well, only this?” Gregory sounded personally affronted at the thought that the rosewood and ominous thorns would have kept them at bay. “Maybe I’m just looking for spectres at the feast... too old for this.”

John broke through first, the brambles pulling at him viciously as he picked up his pace. There was nothing in the space between himself and the cottage. He could see it was almost twilight. They needed to hurry. He felt the urgency carry his feet to the partially open door. “Oh, Goddess. I-”

It was the lad from just this morning laid out on the floor. It was Sherlock, his betrothed, William, his lover. John’s heart stuttered hard in his chest, sword and dagger finding their scabbards in short order to free his hands. He took a knee and lifted the lad, holding him close. The slumbering Prince felt too light, nowhere near as warm and alive as he had just those few short hours ago. John spoke softly as he laid Sherlock out on the only bed in the open roomed home. Brushing the dark curls away from his face, he embraced him, tears pricking at his eyes. The healer in him knew that he was living, but John checked his throat for a pulse none the less. 

“Our Prince?” Greg asked from not far behind.

“He lives... he’s asleep. The curse?” John felt at a loss as he licked his dry and bloody lips. “Just... kiss him?”

“I’ve heard the same, yes. A kiss should break the enchantment.”

John nodded then, and pulled his hand through his hair. His mouth had gone dry as well, but there was nothing for it. He bent down and brushed his lips against Sherlock’s. John was both thankful and reverent. They had been given this, the gift of one another. There would be no pining over what was lost. This kiss was binding, holy; he could feel the upwelling of magicks in the air as it crackled and spun, filling the cottage with the laughter of the unseen. His lips brushed the soft mouth that was closed in slumber, tentative as he chastely explored, remembering the warmth of them and the heat of his betrothed’s skin against his own. 

“Please, William... Sherlock, beloved...” The Prince’s world narrowed to only them as he begged, tears finally falling across his cheeks to land against Sherlock’s throat and hair. “My love, please.”

He licked at his lips and tried again, placing in it all that he could of what he felt for the young man. A second later he felt reciprocation and then surprise as a gasp parted them. John laughed brightly and gathered Sherlock up in his arms. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, it is fine. All is well.” The look of shock and high blush across Sherlock’s cheeks were something John would cherish. Even now, his betrothed bloomed for him. “We must get you to safety, I know this is impossible, but I am yours, darling. I promise to you all will be explained, but we must move.”

“Who... who are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient! ~Diann(Beautifullyheeled)


	4. Chapter 4

The strange man froze, searching William’s eyes. The flicker of loss before the knight could look away was obvious. William wondered why he would be experiencing such if he had just found him? And how was he here and not with his aunts? He opened his mouth to speak, but the man cut him off before he could ask questions.

“I am Prince John Hamish Watson, your sworn betrothed,” he said stiffly, in a polite and quick manner, helping him to his feet. “You were traveling to your family home to take my hand in marriage, Sherlock. You are the Prince of this land and have been hidden for many years. Sir Gregory and I are to see you home.” 

William - no, he supposed Sherlock was more correct - looked John over, deducing. He was clearly a battle-tested knight, given the way he held himself. And from a neighbouring kingdom, as the scale patterning was slightly different that of the other one, but not enough to be _completely_ different; proximity. Gregory, as John had named him, also seemed to have specific heraldry worked into the shoulder plate, the match of which was on his surcoat. High quality indicated a closeness with the royal family. 

“Come, we must leave,” said John urgently. “It’s unsafe.” 

Sherlock took a step, gingerly testing himself. Finding he was sure footed, he released John’s hand. A pained look crossed the Prince’s face again as Sherlock stepped away, but it was gone in a moment. Gregory must have seen it this time, because his brow creased as his eyes flickered over John. 

_Curious, the Prince’s behavior; illogical if they had truly just met._

“You fought, both of you, to recover me,” said Sherlock. “You, Sir Gregory, you know my family; have served them well- it’s in your stance and your armour- is he truly my betrothed? Why do I have no memory of him?”

“This is your first meeting, my Prince.” The knight bowed slightly and clearly that was the truth as he knew it. “He has just arrived, though he is well known in our realm, due to the recent wars. He is friends with both bravery and honesty. I can atest to this.” Gregory kept his gaze neutral. “I do agree with him though, we should move before our good luck runs out. All too easy, this.”

Indeed, whomever had imprisoned him here would not wish him free. Aunt Sally had taught him how to use a very thin, light sword that he wore when travelling. His hand went to his belt and he frowned as he found himself disarmed.

“Take this,” John drew his dagger and presented the hilt to him. It was practical, clearly well-used and not ceremonial in any way. Not the sort of dagger one would normally associate with a Prince, but clearly one used by a soldier.

Sherlock took it, his fingers brushing John’s in the exchange. They were callused and warm and not his problem at the moment. If they survived, when they survived, he would deal with his prospective husband. Until then, thought was wasted on the subject.

“Yes, thank you, John.”

There was a quick look Sherlock caught between Gregory and John and then, shields at the ready, they moved outside of the protection of the cottage. Sherlock knew better, their opponent was playing a game. All of this was too elaborate for just a kidnapping. It was meant to draw others in, similar to a spiders web. Let it glisten and shine with morning dew to attract the frivolous fly; then ensnare it. Just as the fable his aunts had told him as a child. 

“Behind me, Sherlock!” John spoke sharply, clearly used to giving orders and having them obeyed.

“Between you and Gregory, yes.” Sherlock continued to scan the brambles as they pulled closer together. “You do realise this is a devil’s snare? We’re to be trapped here.” 

“Not on my life, my beloved.” John’s eyes were fixed ahead, sword at the ready.

He seemed to be only half aware of what he had said, even as the words made Sherlock pause. He was just a step away from the other two when a voice and the smell of rotten eggs filled the clearing. Green flames that burned with coldfire surrounded the cottage as a man stepped out. 

“I’m so very glad you _finally_ came to call,” he said with a cruel smile. The voice was... lilting. Multi-toned. Unidentifiable. Sherlock shifted towards John as Greg stepped half in front of them both. “Took you _ages_ , poppet. What, didn’t like your birthday gift? The shiny spindle? The quiet it brought?”

“Who are you?” Sherlock was intrigued by the brilliant green eyes of the thin, androgynous figure. Not quite tall in stature, he was clothed in pitch black robes. Soot seemed to curl at the ends in endless mesmerising wisps as he took a few steps further, moving away from the engulfed cottage and closer to them. 

“Good question, poppet. Lestrade, _you_ remember me, don’t you?” The menace was clear in the beings voice as he leveled a stare in Greg’s direction before setting his sights back on Sherlock. “You were just a babe after all... memories can be so fleeting; can’t they Watson?” The brave Prince flinched, but held his ground.

“Your name.” Sherlock demanded once again.

“Rude child! But I forgive you, you’ve been raised by hypocrites and liars.” A long staff appeared in his hands as he spoke. He moved closer, and Sherlock filled with a yearning to stretch out his hand towards the shiny, needle thin point. “But I suppose, to them, you not remembering _me_ was rather the point. You may call me Moriarty.”

“Moriarty?” Gregory spat out angrily. “How _dare_ you take such an illustrious surname and sully it! No, you are _araignée_... a skittering thing to squash under foot.”

“Ah, but did the good king ever tell you I, too, was a first born? That I, too, should have ruled? NO?”

Sherlock found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the point even as he listened. Why would this... mad being... take issue with him? With his parents? He knew he did not have all of the pieces to solve the puzzle and the gaps in his education were becoming all too clear. It was obvious as he tried to edge closer to John, that Moriarty took issue with his first born status, but he would not rule in his parents kingdom. He was bound for John’s... 

“I will not rule, Moriarty.” Sherlock stated calmly. “You will not hurt my parents with my death as they have chosen another to wear the crown of this realm.”

“NO! Have they cast you aside because-” Moriarty’s eyes turned an acidic green, the iris overtaking all of the white. “They _owe_ me... you were to fall...” The creature began to grow in stature and the sooty texture began to envelop his body as he spoke. “It’s just like flying you know... Oh, wait you wouldn’t would you? _I_ do though... He took my wings! But I have _so_ much better now.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide as the transformation took place; body stretching, limbs turning scaled and taloned; horns rose from Moriarty’s hair until they were twisted ebon spires. The laugh coming from the beast that Moriarty was becoming chilled him to his marrow. John stepped in front of him and brandished his shield and sword. Moriarty seemed to be covered by flowing smoke, but Sherlock’s mind was almost completely enthralled with the need to touch the ichorous point. The moment the creature dropped the staff, Sherlock attempted to dart towards the glowing rod.

John grabbed his arm and pulled him close. “Sherlock... You _must_ run.” John spoke quietly as he kept his eyes on the fiend, but the draw was heavy to reach the now sickly glowing point. The need to touch it was so overpowering, Sherlock almost couldn’t hear John urging him to move. “Go, with Greg... In a moment I will engage and I need you safe.” His voice sounded grim. “You will be _safe_. I’ll come for you... You. Must. Go.”

Sherlock could feel hands on his arms pulling him, hasty words being spoken, but his attention remained on the glowing point even as he was yanked away and the darkened cloud billowed. He could feel the sting of his skin being torn as the brambles descended around them. He shook his head to clear the cloying distasteful fog of desire for the thing. A flash of light against steel brought the graveness of their situation back into focus. Here he was, being held back by one of his family’s loyal knights as the unknown Prince battled for Sherlock’s freedom. 

His heart pounded in his chest and marveled at it. He’d never been so affected. The thrill and dread mixed within his veins to concoct a powerful mixture as it thrummed through his veins. Soot-tainted smoke filled the clearing, obscuring all but the sound of the vicious sounding fight in front of him; the only thing still visible was the sickly glow. A pin-prick of ichorous colour in the blackened swirls and eddies. A shimmer of scale, of hardened chainmail could occasionally be seen. He saw the swish of a barbed tail, heard the thud of something solid connecting with lightly armored flesh. 

Why would this Prince risk his very life? There was no logic behind the bravery, only possible death. Destruction for one that was only pledged. A stranger, nothing more. 

The light flickered. Dimmed. Sherlock’s breath caught as he realised he’d not be able to see at all in the darkening forest. Greg stood silent, his hands relaxed against the Prince’s arms. He had to move, to help John if he could. The knight was foolhardy to take on such a fight on his own. He had to break back through, add himself to the fray. The drive to protect suddenly clicked into place and it all became crystalline in his mind. _This_. This is what John felt.

He didn’t tense to give warning to the hands that held him at bay, only moved with a purpose. Sherlock felt a new, deeper nick well on his cheek as he pushed and sliced his way through to the ashened air and his Prince. His betrothed. Kicking away the staff, Sherlock inserted himself between the dragon and John hoping for a clean jab. 

“William... _NO_!”

John’s voice broke his concentration at the last second; he barely had time to react as John shouldered him away from the impending strike that sliced down, hitting him instead and driving John to his knees. The sound of breaking chain mail echoed loudly in Sherlock’s ears. He could see the ebb of dark against the silver and rage swelled up inside of him. Without another thought, Sherlock grabbed John’s fallen sword and struck out at the dragon, his own life be damned. This man was his to protect as well and he had not understood until it was too late. 

Moriarty roared as Sherlock’s borrowed blade hit true. Greg was shouting as the brambles seemed to become less choking, more withered while the foul entity bled freely in its death. Sherlock turned back to John, dropping his sword, then himself to his knees beside the Prince. It couldn’t be. How could he lose someone that had changed his heart in an instant? Grief flooded him.

“Will- it’s al-alright.” John laboured to speak. His mail was rent in four along his torso, too much blood from the grievous claws. He wouldn't have long. Sherlock knew this. He felt the tears sting against his face as his fingers brushed the ashy blond away from John’s forehead. 

“How do you, you know my name... how do I... feel... John I am sorry.” The words were choked and not at all what he wanted to say. Sherlock looked down over the wounds once again and swallowed hard; the silvered scar seemed to be the only part of John’s skin not tainted with sweat and blood. His fingers traced gingerly around it as he looked back to John’s eyes. “You... survived this... but not me. I. Am sorry.”

“Goddess... by her leave. Not my body’s.” The Prince offered a coughed, half-aborted chuckle as he tried to smile. “At least there is this.”

Sherlock looked once again from John’s eyes to the scar. “I wish we had met just a bit sooner, John.”

“It was- one last. Please.” John coughed again, but seemed to calm under the light touch. Sherlock knew exactly what he was requesting. He tried to smile, a soft half-hearted thing; possibly the last thing John would ever see and leaned down, kissing him softly. His fingers stilled on the silver line, lips reverently taking John’s last breath against them. 

“No.”

The word was out of his mouth. As soft as a whisper. John was... gone.

_”No.”_ Sherlock kissed him again firmly. He knew how these things were supposed to go. John awakened him with a kiss. He was his true love; he should, in theory, be able to revive John as well. It was not working. _”NO!”_

He rested his forehead against John’s as he felt Greg’s hand against his shoulder. Comfort. How banal. Sherlock breathed through his mouth, tasting iron and John and death. It was too much. The coolness of the jagged scar felt wrong under his palm. He heard John’s words... mention of the Goddess. Such a silly belief- his snarling mind stopped immediately as his eyes caught the glimmer of gold around John’s neck. 

Sherlock reached for it and pulled out an amulet that had been nestled between the chainmail and his tunic. It was still warm, but came off with the slightest tug. The medallion was battle-worn, stained with blood, clearly rubbed often; perhaps in meditation. Then Sherlock saw it, the fray and break in the golden roping. Of all times for it to give. A broken hiccup of a laugh escaped his lungs.

The Prince closed his eyes against the weight of it all, cleared everything away and just stilled. John believed. Was it too much for him to believe, just for a moment? The Goddess had saved John once; the cold scar clearly should have been fatal....Sherlock held the medallion tightly and bowed his head.

“Please,” Sherlock began. “Please, let him live.” He watched as his tears, sullied from the blood on his cheek, dripped onto the golden circle cupped in his palms.

He swallowed and closed his hand against it, the warmth ebbed, replaced by a preternatural coolness that bit into his skin. He kissed John once more. Even as Sherlock’s heart hoped and opened to the possibility of love, the ache of mourning welled. His mouth brushed John’s reverently. It was cruel, the warmth still there. The softness. Sherlock barely noticed the fingers that wove in his hair and held him closer until the gentle swipe of tongue against his lips registered. A strangled sob caught between them as he wrapped his arms around John and held him fast.

“John-” Sherlock choked. “John, I _remember_.”


	5. Chapter 5

Two days later, the morning of the wedding dawned overcast and threatening rain. John smiled as Sherlock joined him at the window. "It's a good omen for a wedding," said John. "Rain makes the crops grow."

"I don't _need_ omens," groused Sherlock. 

“No,” John spoke quietly. “We don’t”

_We have the Goddess’ blessing._

He kept the thought to himself as he wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock’s hand found his and laced their fingers together. Soon, so very soon, Sherlock would be his. They’d travel to his home and go through the coronation ceremony to name Sherlock as his consort and to bestow him with John’s colours; but for tonight, after their shared vows and obligations to the King and Queen, it would just be the two of them in a quiet wing of the castle. 

But first. “Well, it’s still a wedding. Our wedding. Which means in a few moments your gentlemen will be in to bathe you, rub you with blessed scented oils, and dress you in your finery.” John kissed Sherlock chastely, as he would after the sacrament. “You’ll give me your vows, and then... well.”

John loved teasing Sherlock. He was so easily flustered at so many things and John found it nothing more than perfect. He kissed him again, his tongue seeking and finding the warmth it wanted. Soon his mouth would be worshiping the hidden skin beneath Sherlock’s high collared clothes. They had a while yet to go before that, so John regretfully pulled away, his smile still full of mirth.

“I don’t want... oils. Or finery. I want you in _my bed_.” John had insisted they wait until their wedding night, though Sherlock had groused that they’d already had intercourse. It just felt more proper to him, and besides, the whole castle didn’t need to know they’d already met, and servants talked.

"Just a few hours more," promised John as the attendants knocked and entered. Stepping further away he kissed the hand of his betrothed, causing Sherlock to huff in irritation, and exited the room. 

Instead of heading to his own rooms right away, his feet led him towards the castle's private chapel. A small noise caught his attention and he peered through a door left ajar. To his surprise, he saw Sir Gregory crowding Duke Mycroft against the wall, kissing him thoroughly. John blushed and quickly stepped away, his cheeks still burning as he entered the chapel and sat. 

A few minutes later, Gregory slipped in next to him. John was glad for the dim light as he blushed all over again. 

"I'm glad you're the same station as your love; don't have to worry about the other getting married for politics." His tone was regretful, not jealous.

“A week ago, I didn’t know he existed,” responded John.

“Still, the Goddess clearly watches over you both. I have no doubts you will be as successful a ruler as you have been a Prince.” Gregory smiled at him. “And I know we will sleep easier knowing how well he will be taken care of.”

“ _I_ will sleep easier.” John said. He glanced over at the knight. “You and the Duke are more than welcome at any time, and I look forward to a long peace with your kingdom.”

Gregory smiled at him. “As do I.” He reached over and squeezed John’s shoulder before getting up and leaving him alone. John waited until he was gone before slipping to his knees and taking out the mended medallion as he gave his prayers. 

Finally John was standing in front of the far more lavish cathedral. Inspite of this being a royal wedding, the crowd was relatively small, with a noticeable amount of guards near the exits. Despite vanquishing Moriarty, the royal family was clearly taking no chances. Sir Gregory was near the front, dressed in his ceremonial armor.

A hush fell as Sherlock stepped into the cathedral, escorted by his mother. John’s heart leaped in his chest at the sight. He truly did look beautiful in all his finery. Fresh flowers had been placed in his hair, reminding John of their tryst; probably Sherlock had done it on purpose. 

John offered his arm to his betrothed as he reached the altar. The Queen nodded once and joined the King among the small gathering. John's nervousness evaporated at his soon-to-be husband's touch. There was certainty in this, finally here to be united as one. Sherlock already looked bored before the Priestess even started. He placed his hand over Sherlock’s as they listened to the benediction and turned to face one another at the appropriate cue. 

Words became vows. John’s cloak placed on Sherlock’s shoulders as a symbol of protection and fidelity. Sherlock placed a fine dagger on John’s hip as a symbol of the same. Then the braided cords were gently wrapped around their wrists to bind them. Such simple actions held so much weight. 

“ _Cor semper pellentesque, sit pax_.” John spoke as he held Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock repeated the words back; his pupils dilating as desire edged his features. More sacred words, a shared cup. 

Their _first_ kiss. John’s heart flew against his ribs, pounding, as the excitement hit him. He gathered Sherlock’s hand in his, beginning the recession, leading him down the aisle and into the private courtyard. It was beautiful, laden with food and set with arbours, the sweet scents of spring and security.. He was glad to stay by Sherlock’s side as they feasted, barely tasting the food and wine set before him. Sherlock’s hand was on his knee under the table, patience clearly wearing thin, though he took the food his new husband fed him with his fingers. 

Then Sherlock was being tugged out of his chair. 

Befuddled, John looked askance at the female guest pulling Sherlock away. Gregory laughed and pulled John in the other direction. They were given floral crowns and tied with ribbons that others pulled off to get them to dance. It was giddy. He would catch a glimpse of Sherlock being wheeled through a turn, a put out look on his face, just to have another ribbon stolen; another dance. John recognised the game and tried to catch Sherlock’s eye as he began to work his way, via partners, back to the center with ribbons left.

He laughed loudly as he got closer to the middle. Hands grabbed and pinched; most often taking ribbons, but not always. Many revelers were being coquettish or ribald and John could not fault them. It was meant to fluster; to eventually push the newly joined couple back together all flushed and breathless. John couldn’t have kept the large smile off of his face if he tried as Sherlock and he tracked one another. Those sky blue eyes were almost grey with frustration and obvious want. Perhaps Sherlock was thinking of John’s hands on him to make it through the throng. 

The thought made John imagine his hands on Sherlock... his supple lover beneath war-callused hands; pulling soft sighs and desperate moans. Yes, this was very good. John reached through the center as Sherlock was thrust towards him. He was a disheveled mess. Curls wild, eyes glassy with need; ribbons all but gone. John took him in his arms and spun him before pulling Sherlock back snug against him. Laughter erupted as well as calls for them to finish plucking their ribbons. John thought better of this, and shielded Sherlock as much as he could to make the gauntlet run to the door that led to their bridal chamber. 

Their ribbons followed them, a few still pulled them away as the revelers cheered them on. Others made to follow in a taunting way as was done on nights like these. John pressed Sherlock up against a wall and kissed him senseless for the small group. Pleased with the show, they shooed them on towards the doors of the chamber and left them with choice comments of who should be putting what in whose mouths and advice for other indelicate things that had Sherlock blushing to his roots. He bolted the door behind them. 

“So, my darling husband,” John’s voice was rough. “Should I take their advice? Have you beneath me before you can say a single word?”

“Well, as you are at least two steps from me that is near-” Sherlock tried to finish the thought, but John silenced him quickly with another kiss. It was warm and firm, not hesitant in the least. John licked at the soft lips and gained entrance, tangling their tongues in a tantalising dance. His hands roamed warm and solid against the soft wedding clothes beneath his fingers. John knew they were just a few short steps from their bed and backed Sherlock against it. The soft gasp of surprise teased his wanton spirit, the thrill going straight to his cock. 

He pressed Sherlock upon the fine brocade bedspread; the jeweled tones of which seemed, when paired with the candlelight, to highlight Sherlock’s creamy skin, lustrous. Their bed had been strewn with petals and anointed with sultry perfume. John breathed in as he claimed Sherlock’s throat with a marking kiss, his hands deftly working the stays of the shirt beneath them. 

“William, beloved.” He whispered hotly. “My Sherlock.” His hands found Sherlock’s arse and fingers dipped beneath his breaches. The trimmed nails dragged along the fine hairs and Sherlock groaned with the pleasure of it. 

Sherlock bucked into him; his cock set a firm line against the material and wept, straining to be freed. The darkening patch mesmerised John as he kissed his way down Sherlock’s pale torso. This was not new ground, but for Sherlock, this little bit of touch seemed earth-shaking. He trembled as John quickly did away with the rest of his clothing and took his husband’s cock into his mouth. The briny bitterness hit the back of his tongue as he swallowed him down, sucking gently. Feeling his closeness, John pulled off, not wanting Sherlock to come quite yet. 

He had become pliant and blushing in their bed. It was sweet, but John needed the fire he knew was well within Sherlock’s capabilities . There had been too many days of teasing and longing for his lover to be simply complacent. _His husband_. John wanted Sherlock’s hands greedy; for them to hunger and pull at him. With a wicked smile, he rolled Sherlock on top of him.

“John?” Sherlock huffed. 

The weight felt so pleasant against his body. John gave a single stroke to Sherlock’s full cock. It pulled a groan from his lips and a delicious rocking of his hips. 

“Undress me, Sherlock. I want your hands on me.” John bit his lip, knowing it came out as an order, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. Warm hands glided down his sides. “Yes, like that, beloved.” John encouraged.

Sherlock echoed his smile and made short work of the fabric beneath his hands, leaving John bare to him; the swiftness of his husband left him breathless. Sherlock knelt between John’s thighs, his mouth pressing open kisses, soft nips to his skin. His obvious curiosity led the exploration as John’s thighs were pressed further open and Sherlock’s hot tongue lapped at the crux of his thighs between his bollocks and his arse. John groaned at the not-so-innocent inquiry of lips and teeth, his own cock flushing to full hardness as his head fell back onto the pillows. 

“Tell me how.” Sherlock spoke, his voice tremulous. “I want to open you... how do I-”

“Do you wish to take me, Sherlock?” His eyes caught Sherlock’s as he spoke. “I am yours as well. Have me... know me.” John tried to keep his language in check, his inner voice was hotly lascivious. “In the small chest- our bedside.”

There was the slide of their heated skin, of Sherlock’s weight as he reached to open it and retrieve one of the vials. Sherlock uncorked it and spilled a few precious drops onto his fingers and rubbed. “It it slick... to- OH.” 

Gravity lost all meaning at the sound. 

Sherlock slicked his fingers and moved down John’s body, settling between his thighs again. John nodded tightly in agreement. One of the fingers pressed into him. John groaned softly and spread his legs a little wider. Sherlock captured his lips, kissing him sweetly. How well Sherlock was taking to his newest task, tongue lapping at his own as his second finger joined the first, thrusting in and out. The fingers twisted and John broke free of the kiss, crying out:- “Oh, Goddess! Sherlock, _please_!”

“John,” Curls damp with their exertions caressed his forehead as Sherlock pressed their brows together. His long fingers withdrew and were replaced with a thickness that was unmistakable. Sherlock tipped the vial carefully so that a meager line of fluid drizzled out; his used hand slicking the length. The rosy crown pressed just inside of John. They breathed as one. “Goddess,” muttered Sherlock, “I must have you. Now. I want to... I _have_ to...” 

John’s heart glowed at the words. Surely the Goddess was here with them. “Do it,” he encouraged. “I am yours.” 

Sherlock slid in slowly, thrusting in an odd counter-point until he was almost fully seated. John cooed and begged, soft words falling from his mouth in heavy sighs. It was miraculous and mostly foreign, yet here they were. Sherlock was within him and he thought his heart might burst at the tenderness the virgin was showing him. 

“Move, love... move.” John wrapped his legs high and let Sherlock find his rhythm. This first coupling would be swift, just as before, but John would be not far behind. The thrill of being filled by a lover set his nerves on fire. What a wonderful way to burn, their bed a pyre set alight by their own frisson. “Soon, Sherlock. Beloved... I cannot hold back.” 

“Neither can I! You’re... tight. So very tight; so snug for me, John.” Sherlock gasped, clearly on the brink of losing control.

He continued speaking, deep and low. Sherlock babbling was the sweetest thing John had ever heard. Words of preciousness, of love, filled his ears. John shivered as Sherlock buried himself over and over until, with a tiny cry, Sherlock spent himself inside John. Long fingers flew slickly over John’s own engorged cock until John himself was overcome, Sherlock’s name on his lips.  
Sherlock collapsed against his chest, gasping against his shoulder, clutching at John as if seeking to anchor himself. John ran a comforting hand down his back.

They lay that way, Sherlock over John, until Sherlock finally slipped from him naturally. The only thoughts in his mind were the sleepy exchange of love-drunk kisses and tender touches; not of cleaning up or the wedding breakfast and departure the next day. It would all come. For now, it was just them wrapped in one another and their happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cor semper pellentesque, sit pax ~ My heart, ever beating, is yours.
> 
>  
> 
> Mer and I would like to thank all of you for your patience, kudos, and comments on this fic. We appreciate every single one. This fic in particular never could have happened without her. Thank you as well to all of our fellow SHJW*Writing Group who beta'd and helped along the way.  
> We are in the brainstorming process of a sequel involving Mycroft and Gregory, so keep an eye out for that in the near future! 
> 
> Love and Light~ Diann

**Author's Note:**

> Larking: mid 16th century for oral sex


End file.
